


freedom, cut me loose

by themosthappy



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues, Mildly Dubious Consent, Past Child Abuse, Physical Disability, Slurs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-11 16:57:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7061320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themosthappy/pseuds/themosthappy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Kylo Ren,” the Supreme Leader drawls, dragging out each syllable and watching, poised, for your reaction. You know the name and the terror it inspires, but never has it reached in and settled in your chest before. Regardless, you keep quiet. It is not your turn to speak. It may not ever be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a shadow in the door frame

**Author's Note:**

> "we're swimming in basement now  
> and i met the ghost in the mirror  
>  _gave me quite a fright but i came nearer_  
>  told me all his secrets in a whisper  
> and i had my palm read by the psychic weather reporter  
>  _said he was a wicked fortune-teller_  
>  gazing at the glowing teleprompter"  
> — _untitled_ , sea oleena
> 
> SO i'm a pretty big believer in shameless self shipping because i think it gets shit on a lot of the time and that the shitting is pretty needless (and founded very deeply in misogyny). self-inserts, particular female ones, get a bad rep, but if it makes you happy or helps you cope, who cares, you know? i know a lot of people who think adam driver's a babe/kylo ren needs a good hug and i'm one of them
> 
> this is also going to be quite long, because i don't believe kylo ren can take up with anyone without a loooot of time and effort involved. i kept this first chapter short because there are a lot of concepts to introduce and i don't think they should all be poured out at once
> 
> tbh this leans a little more towards original female character than self-insert but it's also more for me than anything, so there you go. the only reason i'm posting this is because maybe someone else will get something good out of this like i did! cheers and happy summer everyone xx
> 
> chapter title from [untitled by sea oleena](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9M_gzHMavJs)  
> [lieutenant niamh!](http://beyondthemarquee.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/Ming-Na-CU1-533x800.jpg)

One year after the Battle of Endor, on Hosnian prime, in a dark, damp room:

A baby, huffing. She has her father's blue eyes and a misshapen nose, and tears drip onto her face as she wails. They are not her own.

 _Oh, my dear heart_ , a woman whispers into the soft, wet down of her daughter's scalp. Her native tongue bounces back to her in the silence of the room, soft. Comforting.

Outside, the brothel's guardmen bang against the door with impatient fists, and this woman is not a fool—she knows the hearts of men well enough to know that their urgency does not coincide with concern. There is nothing good waiting behind that door. Not for her, and certainly not for her baby. _My dear girl. My own heart. Our time is so very short. I hope you'll forgive me._

Her daughter pauses, panting for breath, and begins to scream again. Probably wishing for the warmth of her mother's womb—a nice contrast, surely, to the iciness and stale air of the brothel. _Too cold for an infant_ , her mother thinks, disapproving; she wraps her baby up in the skirts of her dress and offers her thumb. The girl grapples with it for only a moment before mouthing gently, glumly, as if to say, _alright, alright, I_ _ **suppose**_ _this will do. For now._ The mother's lips turn up, her tears falling faster. They plink against the gentle pink of the baby's face like rain, but she takes no notice, too busy lapping away at milk that isn't there.

_Already so displeased with the world. I do wonder who you get that from._

But this planet is tremendously small, and the woman is not brave enough to think she can run, no matter how much joy has sprung to life in her heart. Instead, she kisses her child's head, and prays for a better future.

One year after the Battle of Endor:

Leia Organa holds her son close to her breast, and does the same.

———

Twenty-nine years after the Battle of Endor:

(You wake in the middle of the night, clutching at your sheets. On the side table, your holo beeps, frantic.

You hurry to answer, not wanting to wake the customer that snores next to you: Lawindr knocked pay last time you did that, and though you hadn't thought it fair, you'd kept your mouth shut. Bruises aren't pretty, after all, and most men don't like to know that someone else got there first.

You'd let this particular one stay the night because he'd been kind, and because he'd seemed sad, in his own way. His arms are snug around your naked waist, and you're careful not to disturb him, pulling the screen close to your face. Such technology is a luxury Lawindr affords you, and a luxury that he monitors obsessively; no doubt he's been awoken by this message as well.

 **URGENT TRANSMISSION, UNKNOWN:** _The First Order has been informed that this is your business channel. Please respond promptly._

Your heart catches in your throat and stays there.)

———

“Madam. We're coming in for a landing. You are prepared?”

Look yourself in the eye. Bat your lashes. You're beautiful, remember it.

You step away from your reflection, your gut rolling as the ship turns. You dislike that this man speaks to you in command more than question, but make no comment, eyeing the gun on his hip. Anyway, you're certainly in no position to pick fights, not with your flowy sleeves and your painted face and the opportunity that awaits you. Still.

“Affirmative.” You talk with an authority you don't have. Small rebellions. Lawindr is not here to speak your words for you, and it feels strange, to be the master of your own fate.

Annoyingly, the steward does not offer his arm to escort you from the ship, and though his demeanor offends you, you purse your lips and follow after. This job will be feeding you for months, stars willing. You can't afford to risk losing it before you've even left your transport.

As you wait to land, you note that this man wears no particular uniform, nor does he remove the cloth wrapped around his nose and mouth. As you stare at the nape of his neck, you weigh the pros and cons of giving him a good verbal lashing for his behavior, though in the end, as the door opens and you descend, you decide against it. This only because he didn't try to start up any awkward conversation with you. Small mercies for small mercies.

 _It is too cold_ , you think as you step off the platform, face immediately pulled in displeasure. Your arrival has not been concealed, apparently; Stormtroopers and officers mill about an open landing area, talking and going about their duties. Many of them look to you as you step delicately onto the granite, and two Stormtroopers immediately come to flank your sides. For a New Republic woman at heart, it feels more hostile than comforting.

You swallow down another shiver and pull your draping sleeves close to your body, careful to remain enticing—the details of your arrangement and your client are still misty, after all, and your benefactor could be anyone, any pair of eyes. There's no telling.

With the thought, a story comes to mind: an ancient lord who, seeking his arranged wife's approval, disguised himself and presented himself to her as a servant, proclaiming his love. The bride-to-be was so disgusted by her future husband that she, unknowingly, turned him away. With a disgruntled husband and embarrassed bride, the marriage went sour; in the end, she was sent away in shame. You do not presume to be a wife on this ship, of course, but you do not plan to follow the ancient lady's footsteps, either.

You're a whore. It's as simple and as complicated as that; the stares on you tell you so.

To be fair to those stares, there's certainly no pretty way of dressing up your purpose when you walk into a room, though others have tried in the past. Many (mostly Lawindr) think it possible, to present you as something you are not. Courtesan, pretty woman, lover. Words as soft as the satin and silks you put on, take off, put on again. You've often wondered, perhaps, if it makes it easier on them to pretend—to coat the lightsaber in sugar before swallowing it, so to speak. It certainly helps with your business rates. But you, after all your years, know better. You know _exactly_ what you are, because that's the only way you can protect yourself from having it used against you. When they called you whore back home, when you walked past and they sneered and spit it at your feet like a wet dog bone, it did not bother you. Because you _are_ a whore, and you have accepted this. They cannot insult you with your own identity, just as you cannot entertain the thought that you have been brought aboard this strange, cold ship for anything other than the sharp red of your mouth and the pleasure between your legs.

In your opinion, this does not need to be a bad thing. Many things have been done in the name of pleasure.

A stranger approaches from across the deck, this one undeniably dressed in a uniform. A small group of soldiers and one finely dressed officer follow after her, trailing her heels like a gaggle of puppies. Not for the first time, nervousness coils in your gut—you know the First Order's reputation if nothing else, and though you don't mind doing temporary business with them, they continue to leave a sour taste in your mouth. The stranger stops a few feet from you and salutes, mouth an unreadable line; when she speaks, it's with a crisp, clean cut accent.

“Ma'am. A pleasure to have you on board. My name is Lieutenant Niamh.” She does something with her face that you suppose is meant to be a smile, though it reads as more of a grimace. In her mouth, _lieutenant_ sounds like _left-tenant,_ and her words seem to end before they're completely done. It's an accent you've always envied, even as a girl, and it endears you to her immediately. “Welcome to the _Finalizer_.”

Noting your cue, you tip your head, gracious as a queen. “My gratitude, lieutenant.”

“The _Finalizer_ is honored to have you. Your things will be taken care of.” She nods to her men, three of which brush by you and into the ship, presumably to carry your things. They avoid touching you. “Please, follow me. I will escort you to Leader Snoke.” She whirls on a heel without further ado, and you follow, your temporary guards stomping behind you.

The other Stormtroopers— _bucketheads,_ you think, amused—stare at you like an imported good as you're escorted across the deck and through the halls. The way they stand tells all. _Off-worlder. Suspicious, suspicious, do-not-trust._ You do not mind. You hold a power over these clunky Stormtroopers that they could only dream about—a formal invitation to be here. Let them stare, it doesn't change anything.

“-and was constructed in utmost secrecy,” Lieutenant Niamh is saying, striding down the hall as you follow after. She clasps her hands behind her back as she walks, her steps short and clipped as her words. You appreciate her attempts to keep your entertained. It bespeaks a kind of respect that her salute could not. “There are, approximately, 1500 turbolasers, 19000 officers, 55000 enlisted, and 8000 Stormtroopers, give or take.” Niamh throws a solitary glance back over her shoulder, not breaking stride. “We have also been previously informed of your anxiousness regarding flying vessels, particularly ships such as the _Finalizer_ , and it has been left to me to inform you that you will be perfectly safe during your time here. The First Order takes no chances and allows no mistakes, milady.”

You grow cold instantly. Your want to ask her who the fuck told her that you're afraid of ships, and who told her you were a _lady_ when you're certainly not, but you don't dare. Instead, you smile tightly and nod at her back, feeling awkward. “Thank you. I appreciate your efforts, Lieutenant.” You wonder if she's just threatened you.

She continues to walk without further comment, navigating the dark maze of hallways without a care. Heads swivel to follow you as you pass, and you notice that they only do so once they're firmly out of Niamh's line of sight.

When you come to a set of doors, Niamh turns to you, and her brow furrows, just a little. It's so small that even you barely catch it. “I'm sure you are...familiar, with the Supreme Leader.” You nod, feeling a bit repetitive in this motion, and she continues. “The Supreme Leader communicates with us through a visual hologram, which you may also be familiar with. Please do not be surprised by this.” She waits for your agreement once more, and then continues with a debriefing she seems unfamiliar with. “Supreme Leader will disclose your job to you in full detail. Please pass through these doors and be patient.”

“Could _you_ not explain it to me?” It's impertinent. You regret it as soon as it's out of your mouth.

She looks at you the same way mothers look at their children when they're being obnoxious. Color rises to your face. “I'm afraid it's above my clearance, milady.” The doors open in a clean movement, and Niamh gestures inside. You swallow your reply (“ _surely you must know_ _ **something** about who I'm meant to fuck_ ”) and enter, careful that your dress does not get caught in the door.

Back home, Rosalind once explained to you the idea of an aura. _An aura is very important for our line of work_ , she'd said, holding your hands gently, _and it can mean the difference between life and death. Some people are better at it than others. It can save you a hell of a lot of trouble, girly._

One glance around the room tells you enough, aura reading or no. This particular room pushes you back and pulls you in at the same time, and you're both enticed and disgusted by the endless darkness. A long ramp trails down the middle, and at the end, a large, empty space. 

Ahead, a hologram fades in.

———

“Kylo Ren,” the Supreme Leader drawls, dragging out each syllable and watching, poised, for your reaction. You know the name and the terror it inspires, but never has it reached in and settled in your chest before. Regardless, you keep quiet. It is not your turn to speak. It may not ever be. “That is your task here, sweet lady. I trust you will handle the execution of this task...creatively.”

You picture yourself draped across a Prince's lap, covered in diamonds and stones. Lust for the luxury of the image hits you square in the chest. You wonder if Snoke sees it. “As you say, Supreme Leader. I will carry out this task to the best of my ability.”

———

( **** _ **Please**_ , two women implore the stars, clutching their children.)


	2. my care is like my shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a strange feeling in your head, like fingers, worms pushing into dirt, and you shudder.
> 
> Then, from above, “get up. Don't do it again.”
> 
> A herd of footsteps to your left, then silence. You rise, looking after his retreating back, and try to figure out if this is what Snoke would call progress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "i grieve and dare not show my discontent;  
> i love, and yet am forced to seem to hate;  
> i do, yet dare not say i ever meant;  
> i seem stark mute, but inwardly do prate.  
> i am, and not; i freeze and yet am burned,  
> since from myself another self I turned.
> 
>  _my care is like my shadow in the sun --_  
>  _follows me flying, flies when i pursue it,_  
>  stands, and lies by me, doth what i have done;  
> his too familiar care doth make me rue it. 
> 
> [...]
> 
> some gentler passion slide into my mind,  
> for i am soft and made of melting snow;  
> or be more cruel, love, and so be kind.  
> let me or float or sink, be high or low;  
> or let me live with some more sweet content,  
> or die, and so forget what love e'er meant." 
> 
> —elizabeth I
> 
> as a side note, all of this is taking place about a year before the events of TFA!

In truth, you expect him to be violent.

Not that he _isn't_. You know the rumors, you're not an idiot. But you really had expected more...bedroom cruelty, as it were. In your experience, vicious men often have vicious bedroom activities, including, but not limited to: choking, whipping, knife play, _pain, pain, pain_. The mask and mass murdering certainly doesn't help his case.

But he isn't cruel to you in bed, or...anywhere, actually. He hardly has anything to do with you, despite your best efforts to be contrary. You're not even entirely sure when you're meant to introduce yourself, if at all. After all, this is a warship, and there's hardly much time for socializing, despite the obvious pecking order. Is he meant to trip over himself to have you? To present himself to you, and not the other way around? _Be creative_ , Snoke had said, but you're not entirely sure how to do that.

That first night cycle, after your initial meeting with Snoke, you're again escorted to your rooms by Lieutenant Niamh. She explains to you in layman's terms how the door works, how you press your hand against the scanner to enter and how visitors will announce themselves into the speaker at your pleasure, so on and so forth. You can't help but feel childish as she talks, despite the fact that you do value the information greatly. It's not like you had anything so fantastic at home, and certainly nothing like it in Lawindr's brothel. And she's not trying to be patronizing. She only wants to help.

When Niamh turns to leave, you feel uncomfortable, like a pet that's liable to break something at any time. You press your hand against the scanner with a confidence you don't feel.

The feeling dissipates when you enter your apartments, however, replaced by the warm caress of luxury. The floor is soft beneath your feet when you remove your shoes, and the lights change color depending on how you set them. Even the walls are tastefully decorated, and your bed is large enough to fit five, _at least_. You begin your exploration like a child given new toys, feeling giddy despite your best efforts to be the dignified lady they all accuse you of being.

As you map things out, you find that there are three rooms overall: a receiving room, your bedroom, and your refresher. Your receiving room has two small couches and a table between, as well as several lights and a painting of a young, beautiful woman. Her eyes are soft, and her posture is hard, and though you don't recognize her, she has a familiarity about her that you can't shake. Your refresher is also standard, accessible through your bedroom and overflowing—shampoos, creams, oils, soaps. There's so much that you doubt you can very well use half of it, much less all of it, though the effort is appreciated.

Your bedroom is perhaps the worst offender. Your bed is larger than is perhaps necessary, threatening to swallow you when you sit on it, and the coverlets feel softer than anything you've had before. The canopy is deep blue, matching the bed, and the word _royalty_ comes to mind when you lay back across it. A desk sits opposite, and atop it, a small, neatly placed holo projector. To make calls back home, presumably. A wardrobe is pressed up against the far wall, large enough for you to stand in. Flanking the bed are two small tables, three drawers each.

You'd came in planning not to get attached, to take in everything as temporary, but you can't help it. You feel positively spoiled, like a heroine in a holodrama. Rosalind will absolutely lose her mind when you write her about this. Before you drift off, you resolve to request paper and a pen to do just that.

———

Your schedule is particularly loose, for reasons you can guess. When your suitor comes calling, you'll need to be ready to fit in whenever he wants you, so to speak. It's a song and dance you're familiar with.

But it's only a maid and Niamh who come calling the next morning, and as you chew a piece of bread, dressed in a soft robe, the Lieutenant explains your schedule. The presumed maid, meanwhile, goes about hanging your clothes in your wardrobe, your fine dress from the night cycle before included. You keep one eye on her. Harmless as the girl seems, anyone with a pair of listening ears is a threat.

“Meals take place at a certain time, obviously, but you won't be required to eat in the mess unless you desire it. You can also send for certain foods through your holo, though I'm afraid we cannot always grant every request you make, due to the population and heavy demands of the _Finalizer_. Apologies.”

You shrug, picking at a mysterious piece of meat. When you take a bite, it turns out salty; you brighten considerably, taking a larger bite this time. “That's perfectly alright. Thank you.” When you glance up, Niamh is looking at you as if you've said something strange. You clear your throat, feeling your skin prickle. “When will I be meeting...ah, my client?”

Niamh joins you in looking uncomfortable. “I'm not sure. Such matters are above my clearance and not relayed to me.” She catches sight of your expression, and seems to fumble to compensate. “Generally, the supreme leader's apprentice is quite busy. It can be difficult to catch him if you're uncertain where to look. However, considering that I highly doubt the Supreme Leader would allow you to simply avoid your...responsibility, I presume exceptions will be made.” It's her turn to shrug, to lean back in her seat. You notice that talking about this sort of thing makes her awkward, even in her professionalism. It's almost sweet.

“I'll figure something out, I'm sure,” you say, sparing her. She visibly relaxes at the topic change. You dip the meat into a purple sauce on your plate and take another bite, considering. “What else is there to know?”

As Niamh runs you through the explanations of the _Finalizer_ and what is to be your daily life for the foreseeable future, you forget entirely about keeping an eye on the maid, caught up in the whir of it all. Later, you'll kick yourself for it, but for the moment, you're too busy taking mental notes.

At the very least, you muse as the Lieutenant speaks, you've an ally in efficient, unflinching Niamh.

———

Your rooms are luxurious, of course, but you quickly bore of your patterned wallpaper and flicking through your holo. Left to your own devices, you put in a request for a few holodramas and some paper, eat your breakfast (toast with some sort of sugary gruel, along with a few other foodstuffs you're unfamiliar with), dress yourself in your clothes from before, apply your makeup, style your hair in the latest fashion (a high braid that starts from the top of the head, and swings as you walk), and take to wandering.

The _Finalizer_ is a warship. You know this without being told, and as such, are careful not to upset the balance and routine set here. Eyes watch you as you move, turning corners, peering into rooms. Some doors are locked, while others remain open—you stick your nose into each, curious. Most are council rooms, or meeting rooms, or storage closets. One is a training room. You allow yourself a long look at one of the more toned women, then shut the doors again, continuing your search.

Around lunchtime, you hunt down the mess hall. Niamh had explained that you had no need to eat there, and that meals would be brought directly to your door, but the idea of being alone with your client for the duration of your time in this place doesn't sit well. Granted, the _Finalizer's_ population doesn't seem very friendly, but then, you suppose, neither do you. That can be rectified.

The mess hall is larger than you expected, and the white walls are impeccably clean, giving the place a sterile feeling. It feels more like medbay than it does a caf. The chatter is a low, steady hum: just as on the landing deck, Stormtroopers and officers mill about, as well as a couple droids. When you enter, several turn to stare, judgement in their faces. One droid approaches you as you pick a table to sit at, beeping with rapid fire questions. You flush, shaking your head. Are you meant to understand?

“She doesn't speak binary, FI9-2,” someone two seats down chimes in, tearing into a thick sandwich. Relief floods in, though the way the droid recoils from you in disappointment makes your heart tug. “Just give her a sandwich and get back to work.”

F19-2 does just that, handing you a sandwich with thick green slices of meat, and beeps at you accusingly before rolling away. You hold the sandwich dumbly, a bit stunned, before you glance at your savior.

“F19-2 assumes everyone here can speak binary,” the stranger continues to explain, fixing you with his stare. “Bit of a bigot, that one. He's just a servant.” The stranger frees one gloved hand from his food, extending it. “Colonel Oleska. A pleasure.”

You shake hands, unsure of how to introduce yourself. Niamh reverently calling you _lady_ comes to mind. “Lady Pandora. Same to you, Colonel.”

Oleska pulls away, waving a hand dismissively. “Please, just Oleska. We're both aware that you're not a foot soldier here, _lady_ Pandora.” He peers at you, as if looking for a blush on your cheeks. Some sign of guilt. 

You're not embarrassed so easily, though you do flick your eyebrows up at him. “Are we?”

“Of course. The higher ups would love to believe that no one gossips here, but even I know the Stormtroopers talk. Not that I'm about to rat them out to Phasma, but,” he shrugs, “things are as they are. You're a hot topic at the moment. And the way you're dressed gives you up, by the way. You stick out like a pretty thumb.”

“I see.” You smile to yourself, the idea of being a commodity pushing pleasure into your gut. You start to unwrap your sandwich, settling more comfortably into your seat as you listen to Oleska talk. There's a nonchalant attitude to him, despite the crisp uniform, and he even smells of cigar smoke. It helps that Oleska's not bad looking, either, pale and femininely pretty. He's the sort of client you'd let stay the night if he asked.

You study him, guessing his bedroom interests. Burns, maybe. Choking, definitely. He seems the type to like to throw someone around, but not be thrown around himself. Of course, you won't be sleeping with him while you're on the job, but it never helps to guess. And judging from the rumors about Kylo Ren, you'll need the practice in reading people if you're to get anywhere.

“Feel free to slap me for this question, but,” Oleska takes another bite of his sandwich before dropping it onto its wrapping, leaning back in his seat. He rests an arm over the back and peers at you, scrutinizing. “What's a beautiful woman like you doing on an ugly ship like this?”

You laugh through your nose, a small sound. You don't particularly like laughing; faking a laugh is easy, but real laughter gets away from you too quickly. It's too easy to be unattractive when you're laughing, dangerously so, but the noise slips from you before you can catch it. Oleska doesn't seem to mind. He keeps his stare on you.

You remind yourself that Oleska, too, could be a threat. Anyone could. Best not get comfortable.

“Imported goods,” you say, leaning back in your chair and crossing your legs. “Your...Supreme Leader requested my presence. My services are required for one of his apprentices, apparently.” You don't name him, not wanting to embarrass him or show your hand too early.

Not that your caution does much good. Oleska's eyebrows raise. “Kylo Ren?”

A small flower of panic blooms, but you quickly squash it. Everyone else at the table is sat at the far end, talking companionably. They don't appear to have heard.

“How'd you guess?” Oleska grins, toothy, as if you've said something adorable.

“Because the Supreme Leader only has _one_ apprentice.” He waves a hand again, catching the small wave of worry that spreads over your face. “Oh, don't do that. I won't go blabbing it around. Just be careful who you go telling that to.” Oleska pauses, turning to size you up again and clicking his tongue. He leans in as if to tell you something in confidence, and you mirror him. “I don't really envy you, sweet thing. They call him the _Jedi Killer_. I can't imagine he's a very easy person to seduce. Especially with the whole...helmet thing.”

You laugh again, controlled this time. “No one ever envies me, really.” You smile at each other, as if some great secret is shared between you.

“And Jedi Killer or no,” you add, taking a bite of your unwrapped sandwich and swallowing hard, “he has something he wants, just like everyone else. Besides." You shrug, nonchalant. "I'm not a sweet thing. Whatever he wants, it's my job to give it to him.”

Oleska's expression flickers with amusement, then dims again. “Ha. Guess you're right.”

You open your mouth to respond when a girl drops her belongings on the table, pulling out the chair across from you. She, too, is beautiful, in the same stilted way that Oleska is, although judging by her face, she's much younger than him. Her hair is yanked up tightly, and her uniform is different than the other officers. More standard, almost. She ignores you completely and fixes Oleska with a stare like a laserbeam, hand on her hip.

“You were supposed to be at the meeting, _ass_. I had to explain to Phasma why you weren't there. Some bullshit about you being sick and unable to move, blah, blah, blah.” She pushes her hair behind one pretty ear, looking fit to kill. “You owe me big time, and I mean-”

She notices you then, sitting there observing, and abruptly stops. Oleska finally deigns to look up, gesturing between you.

“Oh, right. Cadet Meria, the infamous Pandora. Pandora,” he waves a hand at Meria, who looks less angry and more confused. “Cadet Meria. My dearest friend-”

“You wish, flyb-”

“-and most trusted companion. She also doesn't think before she speaks. You ought to get along.”

Oleska treats you casually, almost disdainfully, which you appreciate for its familiarity—Meria, however, looks at you with a strange, awed fear, and you're not sure how to take that. “Pandora? You're the-” Her harsh voice drops to a whisper, and she falls into her seat. “Stars, everyone on the ship is talking about you. Are you...of course you're a lady, you just. I. Uh. I hope you didn't take any offense, milady-”

You mimic Oleska and wave away her apologies. “It's alright. I'm not a lady. But my business here _is_ classified.” You've learned your lesson. Oleska looks subtly approving, and Meria nods enthusiastically, too in awe to really notice.

“I can't believe it. Everyone said you were beautiful, but I didn't think...and your dress! It's so lovely! I've never seen sleeves like that. Oh, you look like Padme herself, which I guess is fitting, considering...are you here for that? For leader Snoke?" She lets out a breath, her words climbing out over each other. Oleska chews his sandwich again, contemplating you both.

“Meria designs uniforms,” he explains, saving you from answering, “and she designed the Commander's outfit. She's still just a cadet, but she gets special privileges for her service. Such as bothering Colonel Oleska without asking, for example.”

She flicks a finger in his direction. “Hush. I'm admiring her.” She leans across the table, peering at you wide-eyed. “Is your nose naturally like that? By stars, I love your lipstick, I wish I could wear it-”

As you jump into conversation about fashion, you figure two acquaintances is better than nothing at all.

———

“Do you wanna train with me?”

You glance up from your lunch, Oleska's eyes on you. Meria's in medbay after a scuffle with a Stormtrooper (a tiff about conditioning), so it's just the two of you today. You've been in the mess often enough that few people stare anymore, though you feel glances on you from time to time. Kylo Ren still has not made an appearance, nor attempted to accost you, and though you grow frustrated at the mystery of it, you hold your ground.

“Train with you?”

“Yeah. Sparring room, that whole deal.”

You frown. “I'm not a fighter,” you say, thinking about Lawindr. Your stomach flips.

“That's alright. You can help me out or...something.” His fingers twitch, agitated. “I just can't sit in here another minute. It's oppressive, all these people looking at us. And Meria's not here to critique my form, so.”

You do end up accompanying him, though you don't do much than hold the targets as he practices his swings. You feel him going gentler than he might otherwise, appreciating the gesture.

“You're not just a sex worker, are you,” he asks suddenly, straightening up, and it's as if he's hit you in the chest.

“You act like a lady,” he continues, pushing his hair back from his face before aiming another hit at the target. “You hold yourself like one. Like someone important.”

Shock melts into anger. “Shut the hell up,” you snarl at him, louder than you would like. A few heads poke up, and you lower your voice to a vicious whisper. Oleska stares at you, presumably surprised at you sudden display of emotions. You don't hesitate. “Shut the hell up, alright. You don't know a damn thing about me.”

A beat, and then Oleska holds up his hands, surrendering. “Alright, alright. Your call. Just letting you know, though. Your _client's_ force sensitive, and I don't want you to end up on an executioner's block if you're hiding something.”

You huff, turning up your chin. “Look, no one's reading _my_ mind. That the best you got?”

Oleska smiles, all teeth, and the topic of your hypothetical secret is dropped.

———

For all the suspense, you don't confront Kylo Ren, and neither does he confront you. Instead, you run into each other. Literally.

You're returning to your rooms later in the week when you turn a corner, colliding with someone. The noise you make is nothing short of undignified, and you stagger on your feet, clutching at your dress. If not for the mask and entourage of Stormtroopers that follow him, you might never have known Kylo Ren from anyone else. You might've tore into him for not looking where he was going, even. Insulted him, this man you're meant to make love you. Like the wife in the story.

Panicked, you follow what your instincts scream at you to do: drop to your knees like a shot, and wait to be struck. _Jedi Killer_. Silence falls for a beat, two, three-

“Apologies, milord,” you mumble into the quiet, taken aback but willing to work with what you've been given. You wait, patiently, for the sting of his glove against your face, the push of his boot into your stomach.

Instead, he looks at you. And looks. And keeps looking. The air in the hall seems thicker, suddenly, a physical weight pressing down on you, and it's a struggle not to overtly gasp for breath. Instead, you suck in air quietly through your mouth, nearly panting for oxygen, and study his shoes with renewed vigor. Black, and worn down. A fighting commander, then, not just a speaking one. You can't say you've ever met either type. You wonder what he looks like under the mask.

There's a strange feeling in your head, like fingers, worms pushing into dirt, and you shudder.

Then, from above, “get _up_. Don't do it again.”

A herd of footsteps to your left, then silence. You rise, looking after his retreating back, and try to figure out if this is what Snoke would call progress.

———

When you finally make it to your quarters, your holo has been moved, and underneath it sits a thick stack of paper, as well as several forms of writing utensil. Niamh heard your requests, apparently. Next to your holo is your dinner, still steaming, and across the room, the same maid from before. This time, she's organizing your nightstand, and you note that several bottles of oil leave her pockets and slip into the drawer. You think about Kylo Ren's oppressive eyes on you, sizing you up.

“Hello.” Her eyes flick up, fixing on you. You make your smile as warm as you can, crossing the room. When you extend a hand to shake, she merely looks at it, confused. It doesn't daunt you. “My name's Pandora. Do you speak Galactic Basic?”

Silence. Her eyes move from your hand, and to you, and back. You itch uncomfortably. “Forgive me if I've offended. I only figure, if we're to see each other often-”

Suddenly, she grips your open wrist and yanks you in, her face inches from yours. Her breath spreads over your face, warm. She doesn't smell like anything at all. It unnerves you, and you yank at her grasp unsuccessfully, trying to get away like a creature in a trap.

“Be careful,” she whispers, urgently, her dark gaze wide and cavernous,“be careful. He will hurt you. You play a very dangerous game that many have lost, lady. Be careful, be careful-” She cuts herself off, clenching her teeth as if forcing herself to stop talking. You gape at her. What do you even say?  _I can play the game very well, thank you,_ or _am I the first of my station? Have their been others before me?_

_Will there be others after me?_

But the girl pulls away before you can respond, quick as she came, and you're left feeling cold. When you try to engage her again, she ignores you, continuing to stock your things calmly, precisely. You don't touch her, not wanting to cross any boundaries with someone you hardly know; when she's finished, she simply leaves, not even a glance backward. You sit heavily at your desk, stunned and overflowing with questions that you know you won't get the answers to.

You shake yourself off. There's no use lingering over it, especially when you know that nothing will come of it. You can inquire after her when you next see Niamh.

Instead, left in the silence of your room, you pick a soft, bendy writing tool from the selection and draft out your first letter to Rosalind. It's been too long since you've spoke, and since you know she has no way to communicate via holo in that dungeon of a place, letters are your only link.

Eating a sweet, mushy substance off a fork from one hand, writing with the other, you explain the state of things: the luxury of your suite, the strangeness of the arrangement and your benefactor, Oleska and Meria and Niamh. You're careful about what you put in—Lawindr is almost certain to read it before she can, and, in a strange way, you want to spite him by keeping things vague. You hope he lays awake at night and wonders about what you're doing. You hope he tastes regret in his mouth every time he thinks of you.

And, aside from Lawindr's predictable nosing, it would be extraordinarily easy for someone else to get their hands on your letter and spread the contents amongst themselves. Such a thing wouldn't embarrass you, but you won't let anyone have the satisfaction of knowing your private business. You guard Rosalind like a jealous hoard. Let them take from you, your innocence and your identity and your life, but Rosalind is out of the question.

You're halfway through talking about the state of your rooms when the holo beeps twice, demanding. The noise startles you from your reverie, and you grab for it. No holograms appear, and you tap at it, confused. The screen lights up: across it, a message displays.

 **TRANSMISSION:** welcome to the _finalizer_. did not mean to scare you earlier. sry

 **TRANSMISSION:** supreme leader mentioned you were here doing business for him

...huh.

 **TRANSMISSION, SENT:** I wasn't scared. But thank you, your grace. I am indeed here to assist Supreme Leader Snoke.

It's not technically a lie.

 **TRANSMISSION:** not “your grace”. kylo ren. just kylo, if you want.

 **TRANSMISSION:** i am here if you require help

You pause, fingers hovering over the pad.

 **TRANSMISSION, SENT:** Pandora. I'm honored to have your attentions, Kylo.

You switch off the pad with a quick swipe, effectively closing yourself off to any further transmissions. You allow yourself a moment to smile before you return to your letter, writing furiously.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> obligatory links for a general visual:
> 
> [ colonel oleska!](http://67.media.tumblr.com/f81c2f7f7619b96835b6cb1e83dc9ae4/tumblr_inline_naj1iay4ET1spgawi.gif)  
> [ cadet meria! ](https://45.media.tumblr.com/62d596f559aebdb6dff6b605e914559e/tumblr_mvpckusn661she1iko4_250.gif)  
> [pandora's “maid” ](http://66.media.tumblr.com/df8e983452e85a3171c699341646cb0a/tumblr_nipnnyGzUx1qd2dewo8_250.gif)  
> [and pandora's dress!](https://cdnc.lystit.com/photos/f342-2015/10/02/givenchy-black-jersey-cold-shoulder-deep-v-neck-dress-product-0-760945298-normal.jpeg)
> 
> yes, i know the holo and comm thing is all messed up to hell but i dont get it at all, and i have researched for forever....so we're just going on our own system here. bear with me asdfgh
> 
> there'll be an actual posting schedule after this, but this just hit me last night and i wanted to post it. cheers! xx


	3. you treat all the rules like you're the queen (but you and i are few and far between)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Then,” this, he says with less confidence, sounding more the child than he ever has, “for me?” His insecurity leaks out of him in waves, and you think of all the women that would crawl across glass to fuck him if they only saw beneath his helmet. Surely Snoke knew.
> 
> “Yes,” you say, and he inhales a little, “for you, Kylo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "you and i are two oceans apart.  
> we're on earth to break each others hearts in two,  
> and it's hard with you; when i'm too far from you,  
> i look at the stars, do you?
> 
> but you’re the flame i use when it gets dark.  
> you've got enough pain for both of us,  
> i've got all these things i'm focused on.  
> you treat all the rules like you're the queen  
> but you and i are few and far between."  
> — _ferrari_ , the neighbourhood.
> 
> i love writing pandora because her whole thought process is just a lowkey 'haha, men are dumb' on repeat

You don't really like attending these meetings. You can't understand half of what everyone's saying, for one, and military slang isn't simple enough that you can learn it on a dime (as you do most things). No one leans over to explain, either, not that you really blame them. You're here because of your looks, while they had to work and suffer through stars-know-what to even have a chance to sit at this table. You'd be bitter too.

Not to mention that the air in the room is always painfully awkward, but you suspect that's not anything to do with your free pass attendance and more with the other attendees lack of verbal chemistry—hell, they don't even have the good sense to talk over each other. They all sit around their table and rush after each other's sentences, one right after the other, trying to get their thoughts out while still remaining proper and not cutting anyone off. You wish you could tell them you can't have both things. You wish they'd just talk.

But you sit in anyway, despite the fact that every attendance is another year off your life and everyone hates you for being there, because it's a good opportunity to put yourself in Ren's path. In the first meeting, everyone glances at you periodically, to see if you have anything valuable to contribute. You don't, but you like the confusion on their faces, even if being there is miserable. You don't dare look at Ren, but you feel eyes on you, cutting you in half.

As much as you despise the routine, you don't dare to pass up an opportunity to study Kylo Ren and find the chink in his armor: it's been nearly a month since your initial day on the _Finalizer_ , and you haven't even seen Ren without the mask, a fact that Snoke could and would surely gut you for. You need to act fast. You've taken to carrying your data pad with you, making notes on Ren like a little to do list (ha).

The biggest note you've got, so far, is that Kylo Ren and General Hux fight like wet cats.

You look at Ren, then Hux, then back to Ren. They look at each other like they're about to climb across the table and fight to the death. Or kiss. You can't decide which you'd like to see more.

“You're a fool if you think the New Republic won't notice and take action against the First Order,” Hux hisses, venomous. The sandwiches have nearly been upturned about three times now, and you currently munch on the dregs of one as you spectate. Everyone else in the meeting is busy either blatantly doing other work across the conference table, staring in to space, or messing around with their data pad. If you listen, you swear you can hear a holodrama at low volume. “An action we are not currently equipped to handle. Sending in pilots will jeopardize our entire mission, if not our entire _organization_.”

“But sending spies to the ground is fine,” Ren fires back, and he has a point. You watch his fists clench and unclench and let your mind wander, wondering if he'll choke you when you finally get under his skin and fuck him. You can't decide how you feel about that, though in the end, you know it doesn't really matter. If Kylo Ren wants to choke you in bed, then he'll do it, and you probably (definitely) won't get much say in the matter.

Ren glances at you, and you remember Oleska's reminder about the Force. You shut off your train of thought and perk your eyebrows at him. _Hello, there_. There is no response. He might not have heard you.

“-annot be traced back to us,” Hux is saying, a visible line between his eyebrows. Ren looks back to Hux, and though you can't see his face, you imagine it must be beet red and murderous.

“You have that kind of faith in your soldiers?”

“Of course.” Hux's face lights up with pride.

“Then you're an idiot.” It drops back down again. He scowls.

“And what makes you qualified, I wonder-”

This goes on for several more minutes. At some point, you drift off; when you wake, everyone is standing to file out. Hux looks angry. Ren is gone.

You stand along with everyone else, smoothing out your dress and considering your options for the next hour and a half before lunch. Perhaps Meria is-

“Your ladyship. A word?” You snap to attention, the only official designated lady in the room. It's what everyone's taken to calling you, since there's nothing else to go off of and it's far too personal for them to call you by, stars forbid, your name. Hux is staring at you now, and though his expression is calm, it means nothing. You know all about what it is, to keep your face empty of emotion while your feelings run wild. Kriff it all.

You don't move. Instead, you wait patiently for all the others to file out, and even then you remain still. You note his shoulders, the way he must hurt when he hits. You wonder if Snoke would even care. “Sir?”

“Why are you here?”

You frown at him. “With all due respect, I'm afraid that's above your clearance.”

“No, though **that's** obvious enough to anyone with eyes, don't worry. What I meant by _why are you here_ was _why are you always taking up valuable space in my meetings._ ” He sounds annoyed. You realize he's venting his irritation with Ren onto you, and you're suddenly unsure of how to feel.

“Because I want to. I was not explicitly told I could not, and it seems advantageous for me to do so.”

He looks at you like a disapproving teacher. Like Lawindr, but with more wits and less blinding rage. “If that's your reasoning, I'm banning you from further attendance.”

That draws you up short. It's the first time that anyone on the flagship has told you no, and the first time it's been done for no reason other than pettiness. You're not hurting anyone, and it's not as if people are fighting for seats. “You can't do that. I'm on Snoke's authorization.”

The general yanks up an eyebrow at you, stare vicious. Like Oleska, he's pretty, but unlike Oleska, his eyes are empty. “Snoke allows you to sit in on meetings that are not relevant to you or your—for some reason, continued—status on the _Finalizer_? He has _specifically_ said this?”

“...no,” you admit. The general snaps the case on his datapad shut, looking satisfied as he piles papers on top of it, and you wonder at him. You've never spoken before this, yet you seem to have earned his ire as much as Ren. Without even lifting a finger, at that. You're as perplexed as you are irritated.

“Then I'm afraid I cannot help you. I admit, I am not entirely clear on your purpose here, or why we continue to fund your desires like a little pretty poppet, but my rules are final. Contribute or be tossed out.”

“You just said my purpose here was obvious.” He looks up from his papers sharply, as if surprised that you've tripped him up.

“What did you say?”

“You said you don't understand why I'm here, when just before, you'd said it was obvious.” You know this game: play the idiot, let the man grow more and more frustrated. Sometimes, it ends in violence. Other times, success. Hux looks at you like he's ready to grab you by the hair and sling you around until you're a bloody pulp, then toss your remains from the ship.

“Yes, yes, you're very clever. You're also wrong. I said, _what_ you're doing here is obvious. _Why_ Leader Snoke allows this frivolity to continue, however, is beyond me.”

“I'm on Kylo Ren's invitation.” It comes out automatically. You instantly want to take it back, since you're not even sure why it came to mind or how it made it all the way out of your mouth and it's not even _true_ , but you can't. It's said now, and Hux is looking at you like you've suddenly turned Twi'lek before his eyes. “Throw me out, and all three of us can take it up with Leader Snoke.”

There's a long silence between you. You don't break his stare. “I see.” Another beat. “Carry on, then, _your ladyship_ ,” Hux says, brushing past you disdainfully. It's a victory, you suppose, but you don't feel very victorious. Just annoyed. You grab another sandwich and your holo before the cleaning droids come in, determined to find Meria.

———

“The general can be...tempestuous,” Meria explains, when you later recount the events to her in your usual training room, at the same time that Oleska says, “a heinous bitch.”

“Hey!” Meria glares at him, whipping the back of his legs with the butt of her staff. Oleska yelps and leaps away. You watch them spar from a few feet away, sat on the mat with your hands behind you. It's become routine, to watch them spar, or serve as a referee for when their matches come too close to decide from the inside. It's certainly a dramatic improvement from lounging in the general's meetings, or sitting in the mess and watching people evaluate you like a specimen in a lab. “Watch your mouth,” she reprimands, “the general's good to us.”

“Yeah,” Oleska retorts, rubbing the sore spot on his thigh through his pants and winking at you, “but he's still an ass.” This time, when Meria swings, he jumps out of the way and lands a strike on her waist. She squeaks, then they're at it again, flying blows at each other. You snort out a little laugh.

They jump back away from each other a few minutes later. Meria's breathing heavy. Oleska's breathing's as quiet as open space, but he's dripping with sweat. “Anyway,” he calls out to you, as if the conversation never stopped, “I wouldn't take it personally. He's probably just sexually frustrated and wanting to fuck you, but unsure of how to deal with it. I don't blame him,” he adds, appraising you.

Meria shoots him a sharp look. “Cut the chauvinism, asshole. She'll have Ren's ear in a week, and **then** you'll be kriffing sorry. _Anyway_ ,” she says, throwing her voice in your direction, “Hux deals with a lot. Try to cut him some slack.”

“I'll try,” you call out, meaning it. While she's distracted, Oleska strikes again: they both tumble to the floor, laughing. You grin.

———

(At night, you dream:

It's one of your regulars. You're back on Hosnian Prime, slipping through the cluttered bazaar. People chatter around you, and there are fireworks in the night sky. You realize with glee that it's the midyear festival. Feeling giddy, you pick at trinkets and ask the price, knowing that here, in this dream, you're wealthy and it doesn't matter. Your mother trails behind you as you go, faceless and fond. She occasionally points out things, and you laugh about them, even when they're not funny or don't make sense.

You stop at one stall and pick up a golden circlet. It's inlaid with diamonds and moonstone, and shines when you turn it.

“Excuse me,” you call to the merchant, your language not Galactic Basic, but rather the universal language of dreams. When he glances over, you hold up your find.

“6,000 credits,” the Hutt behind the counter says. You turn to your mother to complain about his audacity, but it's a tall man, not your mother. He seems just as shocked as you are, as if surprised you've noticed him. _Here_ , he says, his voice disembodied, _here are the credits. Buy your trinket._ You smile, pleased, and he smiles back. The action looks unnatural on him.

“I want to buy _you_ something,” you tell him as you hand the credits off to the Hutt. The Hutt grunts, and you pluck your trinket off the rack, satisfied. The man continues to smile at you, looking tentative. You note his crooked teeth, the odd shape his lips take.

“This is enough. I don't need anything.” His voice is more solid now, and his lips move when he speaks. You watch for a moment before you shrug and place the circlet on top of your hair. It's weightless.

“Look,” you tell him, tugging his sleeve like a child, “I'm the queen now. You're the king.” You don't mind being yourself here, being forward. Anyway, he's pretty, and he'd make a good king. If he doesn't, well. At least he's nice to look at. The man folds his hands behind his back, and as the action pushes him closer to you, you decide that his mouth is not such an odd shape after all. You wouldn't mind kissing him. He looks like he needs to be kissed.

“Is that what you'd like,” he asks you, serious, and at first you assume he means kissing until he says, “to be queen?”

You consider this for a moment, then shake your head gently, so as not to disturb your crown. “Not queen. Just free. I'm tired of being told what to do.” He looks stricken, as if he's discovered something horrible.

“You're sick,” he says, and you jerk, frightened. No one knows that. No one but you and the doctor that told you so, and the doctor's too old to be telling it. You'd assumed his death long, long ago. No, he can't, this is too real-

“I can help you,” the man says, clutching your arm, but you're panicking and the dream is starting to melt. “Let me-”)

You wake gasping for breath, feeling suffocated. It's still the middle of the night cycle. Your head hurts. Your dream was nice, but you can't remember why, exactly.

———

A week later and still no success with Ren. You're called to a meeting with Snoke late in the middle of the night cycle and dread it the whole way there, grabbing at the skirts of your dress to keep yourself grounded. At the very least, you tell yourself, he'll just fire you. You'll be sent back home; perhaps, even, to Hosnian Prime. It won't be all bad.

But when you get there, you're not alone, and Snoke isn't furious. General Hux and Kylo Ren are stood at the end of the platform, and Hux is (fortunately) turning to take his leave. You cough hard into your long sleeve. When he sees you, his lip curls, just slightly. He doesn't touch you as he passes.

Ren remains, stiff and staring up at Snoke's ominous projection, and you realize his mask is removed. You stare as you approach, interested, and then draw back as realization hits. It's him. The man from the dream.

“Pandora,” Snoke says from above, voice like the snap of fingers, and you look to him.

“Supreme Leader.” You resolve to think about Ren later.

“Your mission has been coming to fruition.” He sounds pleased, and it confuses you, because your mission is definitely the opposite of coming to fruition. You inwardly panic as you slide a glance at Ren, but try not to show it. Perhaps this is a test. You dislike that idea (you are not a droid that jumps through hoops) but allow the treatment, given you have no other choice. Maybe Ren doesn't know. Maybe Snoke intends to keep it that way. You're desperate to ask.

“I hope to not disappoint you,” you say instead, and Snoke grunts in approval.

Worms in your head again, stronger this time. You push them out, and Kylo Ren looks irked, as if you've personally offended him by not letting him know your business. _Earn the privilege_ , you think, angrily. You mentally shove the thought at him, forceful, and watch him fumble. His eyes avoid you. “Will that be all from me, Supreme Leader,” he asks, nearly mumbling. The tips of his ears are a faint pink. “I do not wish to intrude.”

Above you, Snoke looks faintly amused. “Ah. Yes, of course. _Lady_ Pandora, this is the Lord Ren. A shame, that you have not been formally introduced.” He says it like he knows he's wrong. You turn and meet Ren's eyes. He looks...uncomfortable. And young. Too young to be in his position, certainly. You're nearly thirty and still turning tricks, while he commands a war fleet looking like a precocious child. Life just isn't fair at all.

But his good looks are a relief. You'd pictured him burned and hideous, and while you're not shallow, you can't deny that you're pleased at his prettiness. You nearly extend a hand to him to show your solidarity, then pause. You think better of it and sink to your knees. Ren makes a strangled noise, as if you've just stripped naked in one go.

“Your grace,” you say, purposely pressing on the bruise of your last conversation. You don't meet his eyes. “I'm honored to finally make your acquaintance. I have heard so much of you.”

You struggle not to laugh, watching his feet shift. He's so uncomfortable, it's almost comical. “...and you. _Lady_. I have heard much about you. You're beautiful.” The last part sounds strained and unhappy, his natural voice hoarse. You rise with the grace of a queen, flicking your eyebrows at him ( _hello, there_ ) and turn back to Snoke.

“Shall I continue with my mission, sire?” Snoke looks absolutely delighted, as if this is all some big game to him and an interesting play has been made.

“You _shall_. Continue your excellence, madam.” With a last glance at Ren, you turn to go, a little confused about the initial purpose of being called here. You're halfway out of the room when Snoke speaks again. “And, Pandora.”

You turn. “Supreme Leader?”

“There are many doors open to you. All you need do is try them.”

You dip a low curtsy. “Yes, Supreme Leader.”

“Excellent. You are a fine addition to this ship, lady, and let no one doubt it. Carry on.”

As you exit, you hear Ren peppering him with questions. He must think he's being quiet about it. “Supreme Leader, I do not understand. Is she here on your pleasure? What does she contribute to my training?”

“Have you ever considered, Lord Ren, that your training is not the focus of all-”

The door shuts behind you with a snap, effectively drowning out the rest of their conversation. Still. You walk back to your quarters feeling significantly better about things than you did before.

———

You call for Niamh once you've returned to your rooms, fall into a chair, and wait for the door to buzz. When you open the doors and let her in five minutes later, her hair is a bit out of place, but otherwise, she's herself. You're impressed. It takes you at least an hour and a half to look presentable.

“You got here quick.”

“Part of these reason I was picked for this job is the closeness of my quarters to yours, ma'am. How may I help?”

You wander back to you desk and offer her a bite of your late dinner. When she shakes her head, you take it for yourself, swallowing before you speak.

“The girl who cleans my rooms is very...cryptic.” Niamh straightens up, tone stern.

“I can have her replaced if she displeases you.” You quickly shake your head.

“No, no! Not at all. She seems...” You think of her warning voice, her hand on your wrist. “...well meaning.” Niamh stares, as if you've just said that your hair turns blue in the sunlight.

“She's only a servant. We can easily have a maintenance droid take her place if that would make you more comfortable. The droid would simply be less efficient, and less liable to conversation.”

“Conversation?”

“A human was picked for your comfort, madam. And a droid cannot braid hair. Well,” she amends, “it could, technically, but there have been. Ah, accidents.”

You picture a droid scalping you in its effort to do your hair and shudder. “That's alright. I was only curious about her. Where is she from?”

Niamh pauses, pulling up her datapad to look. “Let's see, she's from...ah, here. From the Diiyá system, your ladyship. Planet Tsintah. She moved there as a child.” You rack your brain. If you're not incorrect, the Diiyá system was effectively wiped out by the First Order a few years ago, colonized and raked for resources, people slaughtered. You remember seeing the news on a holocast. The way they'd presented it had made it seem as if the people had went into the deal willingly, but everyone knew better, including you. “She volunteered her service, and she's been from ship to ship ever since,” Niamh adds on.

“Volunteered.” A gentle word. Niamh seems unaffected by this brutality.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“And...her name?”

Niamh pokes at her datapad again, and says, “Aidira.” You roll the sound in your own mouth, testing it.

“Is there anything else?”

“No, ma'am,” Niamh replies, scrolling through her pad once more. Her face catches. “Well, there's one thing. Your maid had a minor infraction four months ago, on one of the other ships in our fleet.” The lieutenant's brow lifts delicately. “She struck a Stormtrooper, it seems.”

You raise your brows back. “ _Struck_ one?”

“Yes, ma'am. For indecent comments and behavior, according to her. She was punished and reconditioned. Shall we send her away?” Something in you sparks.

“No, she's staying. That will be all, Niamh.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Niamh turns to go, then pauses, leaning on one leg more than the other. The violation of her typical uniform posture surprises you. “There is something else, ma'am, if I may.”

You consider reprimanding her for disobeying your order, a privilege you've never had before the _Finalizer_ , but think better of it. “Lieutenant?”

“Your letters. They are being intercepted.” Your heart almost stops. You struggle to get out a coherent reply.

“A grave offense," you manage, feeling too open, "but I've been getting a letter every other week, on schedule...?”

“Yes ma'am. You have been receiving them, and sending them. But your letters.” She seems uncomfortable again, like that first morning when you'd talked about Kylo Ren. “They're being read, ma'am. By the commander. And then sealed up by what I presume is the Force, and sent on to their destination.”

There's something thick in the air. “By _whom_ , you said?”

Niamh looks ready to fling herself out of the airlock rather than repeat herself. “Lord Ren. Ma'am.”

Your heart rate picks up, angry. “And how do you know this?”

“I saw Lord Ren stop the Stormtrooper that was carrying your incoming letter yesterday. And then the outgoing one today. He opened them, scanned them, and then closed them again. I presume he wiped the minds of the Stormtroopers he stopped.” Her face, you notice, is beet red, and you realize that most of the people on this ship would've kept it to themselves, for fear of Ren's anger. You step forward and touch her shoulder, gently.

“Thank you for telling me. I value this information greatly, Lieutenant. There is no better service you could have done me.” Niamh visibly relaxes, staring at the floor.

“Thank you, ma'am.”

“Dismissed.”

“Yes, my lady.” You wait for her to close the door behind her, count to fifty, then exit. You're going to have blood for this.

———

When you find Ren's rooms, you're surprised that his door looks just the same as yours does. For some reason, you had expected something different. You think about the luxury of your rooms, and think about the potential luxury of Ren's, and swallow. You're lifting a fist to pound on the door when Snoke's words from earlier come to mind. _All doors are open to you_. You'd thought it a metaphor, but maybe...

You touch your hand to the scanner, and sure enough, the door flies open. You step in, and it shuts behind you, the lock clicking. What a neat little trick.

Contrary to your preconceptions, Ren's rooms are not luxurious at all. He has the standard receiving room that you suppose is granted to officers and higher ups, but it's stripped bare. There are a few furniture pieces from where you can see into the bedroom, but before you can go snooping, Ren appears in the doorway, blocking your view. He's still without the helmet, and his bare face shows surprise.

“How did you get in here?”

“I touched the door. It opened.” His eyes narrow at your impertinence.

“You are dismissed. Immediately. Leave now and we will forget this happened.”

The tone he takes with you, like a commanding officer, makes you even angrier. “I don't think so. You've been reading my letters.” You're not going to waste time. Ren looks shocked again, then guilty, and you feel irritation bubble up. For stars' sake, he's a grown man and he acts like a child having a mood swing. “Why? I ought to report you to Snoke.”

He laughs, and the sound is nasty, almost rusty from disuse. “ _No one_ is reporting me to Snoke. He'd sooner hear a complaint from me than from you, I assure you.” Thankfully, he doesn't question how you know, and you're relieved. Not that you'd rat out Niamh, but you're worried that he might try and ruin your mind to get at the mole, and you'd hate for her to suffer for her service.

“ _I'm_ his guest, and you're reading through _my_ personal belongings. Those letters are not your nightly reading material, Ren.” Once, you mocked General Hux for fighting with Kylo Ren like disagreeing children. You understand his reasoning now.

“What are they?” Ren steps forward, and you feel the fingers in your head again. He catches you off guard this time and slips through the cracks, shifting through while you're still confused about what's happening. Memories of Rosalind flick before your eyes as Ren looks in: her hair, long and blonde and impeccable; her smile, the way she tosses her head back when she laughs; her tears and her smeared makeup when Lawindr-

You step back, and the sensation stops abruptly. Ren doesn't appear satisfied by his exploration, merely more perplexed. “Is she your lover?” He frowns. “I didn't know pleasure houses allowed lovers. This Lawindr, is he your-”

Your anger is so strong that you could die from it. “I didn't tell you those things,” you snarl, speaking through grit teeth. You feel a headache coming on. “You don't get to have them. They're mine, and I didn't tell you-”

“I already know most things about you,” he interrupts, nonchalant, “that you're a whore. That you come from the Republic, but you don't ally yourself to them. That you work in a pleasure house on a dusty little planet that no one cares about. That Rosalind is important to you, and that your mother-”

“ _Enough_ ,” you snap, stepping forward to push him. He doesn't move, and you're left with your hands on his chest like some kind of rescued maiden. You don't immediately step away from him, recognizing your opportunity, but you do drop your hands. “Those things are not for you to look through! If we were friends, maybe I'd tell you. But you cannot just poke through someone's head and expect them to be fine with it. Those things are mine, do you understand?” You feel like you're reprimanding an animal or a child, and it doesn't help that Ren looks like a sad wookie. By stars, you'd kill him if the situation were right. “Would you like it if I shifted through _your_ memories?”

“No,” he says, too quickly, and you lift your eyebrows at him. He lets out a little breath. “My apologies. I was wrong.” It's curt, and you don't believe he means it, but you'll take it. You lower your voice a little, the tension somewhat diffused.

“Do you know what I'm here to do?” Might as well rip it off like a band aid.

“No,” Ren says again, seeming to mean it this time, “Snoke has not told me. And you didn't write about it, or think it.” He glances at your forehead, as if he can see it just by that alone, and seems to think a minute. “Are you here as the Supreme Leader's mistress?”

You snort a laugh. Your amusement makes Ren frown, as if the idea that his Supreme Leader isn't physically attractive is deeply offensive to him. “Not even close.”

“General Hux?” He sounds almost hopeful, and you think of his offer to help from before.

“I do not think General Hux is preconditioned to my sort, no.”

“Then,” this, he says with less confidence, sounding more the child than he ever has, “for me?” His insecurity leaks out of him in waves, and you think of all the women that would crawl across glass for your position if they saw beneath his helmet. Surely Snoke knew.

“Yes,” you say, and he inhales a little, “for you, _Kylo_.” It's the first time you've said his name, and it tastes strange on your tongue. The look on his face says all.

You could fuck him now. He'd go for it, and your position would be secure, and you might be booted from the ship but at least you'd be filthy rich and well-fucked. You could be eating like a king by tomorrow morning. Still, something in you cries out against the idea. Go too fast and it might wreck the whole thing, and in that scenario, you could potentially have your pay revoked. And you're still pretty angry that he read your letters, nosy little shit.

No, you decide. Drag it out. Make him suffer for what he's taken from you.

You look at him, frozen there, and take a step forward. He fiddles with his hands, aimless. “I am, uh-”

You stretch up and kiss him. He breathes out into your mouth in a huff, surprised, and his breath smells like rationed food. You wonder why you get special meals and he doesn't. Strange.

It's a chaste kiss, really; you don't even tongue him, you just press your lips against his for a few seconds or so. He's starting to reciprocate, clearly inexperienced, when you pull away. Your lipstick is red against his mouth, and his pupils are fat. You'd laugh aloud if it wouldn't shred his confidence.

“What a sweet boy,” you say instead, reaching a hand up to pet his face, and this makes him jolt. He likes praise, then. You drag your hand down to his throat, scratching lightly, and Kylo makes a little wanting noise, seemingly determined to become a statue before your eyes. When you pull away, the disappointment on his face is palpable.

“Read my letters again, Ky _lo_ ,” you say, your heels clicking against the floor as you turn to go, “and I'll cut your throat with a letter opener.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ten points if you get oleska's little reference!


	4. her radiance scathes me (or perhaps i have caught her)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You wonder at this man, this man who has been the death of so many, this man who seems to be more boy than man at all. The fact that the real Kylo Ren supersedes your expectations for him—cold, gets off on violence—both scares and fascinates you, and you're forced to smother affection, struggling not to humanize him. You know well enough that your place on the Finalizer is temporary, and it won't do, to fall in with someone that will eventually tire of you. To fall in with someone who will replace you sooner rather than later. To fall in with someone that has killed, and will do so again, and again.
> 
> You walk the edge of the precipice, and Ren's affectionate hands are constantly threatening to push you over. You must know your place. You must.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root:  
> It is what you fear.  
> I do not fear it: I have been there.  
> Is it the sea you hear in me,  
> Its dissatisfactions?  
> Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?  
> Love is a shadow.  
> How you lie and cry after it  
> Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.  
> All night I shall gallop thus, impetuously,  
> Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,  
> Echoing, echoing.  
> Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?  
> This is rain now, this big hush.  
> And this is the fruit of it: tin-white, like arsenic.  
> I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.  
> Scorched to the root  
> My red filaments burn and stand, a hand of wires.  
> Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs.  
> A wind of such violence  
> Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.  
> The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me  
> Cruelly, being barren.  
>  _Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her._  
>  I let her go. I let her go  
> Diminished and flat, as after radical surgery.  
>  _How your bad dreams possess and endow me._  
>  _I am inhabited by a cry._  
>  _Nightly it flaps out_  
>  _Looking, with its hooks, for something to love_.  
>  I am terrified by this dark thing  
> That sleeps in me;  
> All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.  
> Clouds pass and disperse.  
> Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?  
> Is it for such I agitate my heart?  
> I am incapable of more knowledge.  
> What is this, this face  
> So murderous in its strangle of branches?——  
> Its snaky acids hiss.  
> It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults  
>  _That kill, that kill, that kill_."  
>  — _elm_ , sylvia plath
> 
> warning for lowkey sex in this chapter!! as well as implied underage sex work and implied rape. nothing too graphic, but it's a part of pandora's past and is mentioned.

Of all the things you had expected to find in your exploration of the _Finalizer_ , a droid-run kitchen had not been one of them. You watch from the doorway, fascinated. The tallest one comes up to your waist at the most, and they all trill to each other in Binary, working and rolling around each other effortlessly, a well oiled machine.

You clear your throat, and a hundred machine heads swivel to look at you. A particularly small droid rolls up to you, a purple light flashing as she communicates, and you're surprised to hear Galactic Basic echoing up at you. Her voice is robotic and motherly; you presume she must be the leader, of sorts. Do droids have leaders? “Good evening, ma'am. Are you lost?”

You feel your cheeks growing red at the stares, as if this isn't something you've done before. “Is this the kitchens?”

“Yes, ma'am. We have rations if you're hungry!” She turns to give an order to another droid, but you speak over her.

“No, I'm not. I was wondering...” The droid turns to look at you, and you suddenly feel like an idiot. “...if you needed any help?” Of course they don't need help, they're _droids_. They're designed to run without human supervision. You suddenly wish you'd searched somewhere else.

A beat. She must know this too. The little droid turns around and beeps something at another, larger droid, who responds in kind. She turns back to you. “We're not sure Leader Snoke would approve, ma'am. Making a guest work is _dreadfully_ rude.”

“My assigned schedule has been left open for a significant block of the day cycle,” you explain, “and I'm _dreadfully_ bored. If anything, you're helping _me_ out.”

Another beat. You didn't think a droid could look stern until today. “Alright. But if you get us in trouble, miss, it's on your head.” She rolls away and returns with a pair of rubber gloves that go up to the elbow. “You're on cleaning duty.”

And that's how you end up working in the kitchens. It's a simple job, and at times you struggle, but it comforts you, to be of use on this ship that seems to have no room for excess. Now, if someone asks after your occupation on the _Finalizer_ , you can actually say something besides a cryptic, “for the Supreme Leader's pleasure." The thought makes you perk up considerably, and when Meria comes to retrieve you after the dinner period (“come on, pretty lady, time to play referee!”) you don't feel so bad about your existence. At least you've done _something_ , even if it's not Kylo Ren. The rest of the week goes by relatively smoothly.

———

“I didn't realize you were a serving girl.” The sound of Ren's modified voice nearly makes you break the sink. KJ-L beeps up at you frantically in Binary, sounding concerned. You shake your head, your slow understanding of Binary catching the gist of the message: _are you alright? Should I throw him out?_

“No, no, it's fine. I'm alright, dear. Just gave me a shock.” She beeps an affirmation and rolls away, completely ignoring Kylo. Which is ironic. With his tendency to shatter equipment, you think droids would have the most to fear from him.

You glance back at Kylo, but you can't see his face, the mask obscuring any read you could get. You try to judge by posture instead; the fold of his arms, the way he leans against the doorway. Casual, or at least, trying to be. He seems slightly off, and anyway, you don't think Kylo Ren could do anything casually.

“You're thinking about me,” comes through the mask. It's accusing. _Everyone on this ship is thinking about you,_ you long to tell him, _they're all afraid, can't you tell?_

Instead, you go back to scrubbing the tray in your hands, your gloves squeaking with the effort. “I thought you said you couldn't get in my head,” you point out, hoping to trip him up. Annoyingly, he doesn't even stumble.

“I can't. But you're giving off projections. It happens in the more passionate moments.” You laugh from your throat.

“Am I _passionate_ about you?”

“I don't know. Perhaps. I can't read anything directly from your mind.” _Unless you allow me_ goes unspoken. You suspect he could simply force his way in, and the fact that he's instead waiting for your permission gives him a good mark in your book. You hum and pass your last tray off to 3-8A, who stares up at you like you're the reason that the stars are so bright. You make a dismissive noise at him.

“Go on, you little scamp,” you warn, toeing him towards his assigned destination as you peel off your gloves and wave them in his direction, “or KJ-L will have your modules.” Disappointed beeps, then the sound of a wheel rolling away. You drop your gloves on the counter for a droid to pick up before the ship's night cycle, and look up to find Kylo staring at you like you've grown a second head.

“You're...friends with them? You know you don't need to do anything for them. They're _machines_.” Uncertainty sounds strange from behind the mask. You clear your throat.

“Why not? I used to do something similar, back home. And they're sweet tempered, though they don't let on.” You fold your arms and lean against the sink, shirking your duties like a flirting teenager. The description's not entirely wrong, even if your youth is far behind you. And good riddance, too.

Kylo makes a little huffing noise, and you realize it's a laugh. “They're just droids. They don't have personality.”

“I'm sure they'd beg to differ.”

“And they're servants to you,” he adds on, “however sweet-tempered. Of course they're not going to let on.”

You lift your chin a little. “I happen to _like_ sweet-tempered things that don't let on.”

“I never said you couldn't.” Ah, yes. The prince of subtlety, this one. No wonder Snoke bought and paid for you: this boy couldn't understand romance if it was dropped directly into his lap. Kylo Ren may overtake you in life's rankings, but in terms of social skills, you have him beat by several light years.

“I know.” You jut your chin further out, droids milling around you as you delicately extract yourself from the kitchen's rhythm. You shoot him something more obvious this time. “You couldn't tell me what to do if you tried.”

Your flirting seems to confuse him a little. “I'm above you in rank. I can command you however I choose.”

You're not in the rank of the _Finalizer_ at all, but you don't tell him that. Instead, you step closer, flashing him a smile that's all teeth. “And how _would_ you command me? If you could.”

He goes very still, and you know you've hit your mark. “The droids would do anything you said,” he continues, as if you haven't spoken, “because you're the lady of the ship.”

That makes you lean away, your expression crumbling. “I'm not actually a lady, you know. I'm just a whore, Ren.”

He tilts his head. “You're an extension of the Supreme Leader. Albeit a small one, but still an extension. You should speak better of yourself.”

Your laugh is nasty. “I'm not here for _Snoke_.” You fix him with your best stare, your lips turning up again. “I'm here for someone else, as you well know.” That leaves him without a response. No good. You try again, undaunted.

“But surely as a lord, you know the way this dance goes?” You step closer and walk your fingers up his arm, Kylo very still under you. You're close enough that can hear his breath behind the mask, slightly labored. “As a lord commander, you are higher in rank. You must make the first move, else we dance forever. Or never dance at all.”

“Do you dance?” It's hard for him to match your hushed tone with his mask, and a few of the kitchen droids look over, never stopping their work. You tongue your cheek and shrug.

“A little. I know a waltz, but not much else.” You breathe, slow, and watch his chest rise and fall. “Do you?”

“I learned from my mo...once. I knew once. It was a long time ago.” You look at him, more fascinated with him than you were with the droids. Behind you, you can hear them clearing up mess and beginning to power down for their midday rest period, headed for their charge pads.

“Maybe you could teach me,” you offer, “or we could learn together.”

You take your cue and brush past him before he can match your reply, your hand lingering on his arm as you go. He catches your wrist. “Wait.” You press your lips together to hide your joy, the thrill of being a chased thing.

You turn, falsely polite. “Yes?”

“You should,” Kylo starts, then stops, and you can tell he's considering his words carefully. A good sign. “I am free, later in the night cycle. If you would like to talk.”

“Talk?”

“Yes. Would you?” There's an edge of desperation in his voice, and for a moment it's just you, holding the commander of the _Finalizer_ at the end of your string. It's been a couple weeks since the letter incident, and Niamh hasn't said anything about your letters to and from Rosalind being read, not since her original confession. You suppose you can let him up.

“I'll consider it.”

———

Meria squeals with delight when you tell her that afternoon, and Oleska, though his face is unmoved, seems pleased. “Tell me again,” Meria says, resting her chin in her palms. “Did anyone hear? I bet it was totally scandalous.”

“Alright,” Oleska interrupts, pushing off the wall, “One go around is enough for me. I'm off to spar. Try not to kill our new queen, would you?” Meria slaps at his behind as he goes, smirking, and Oleska waggles his fingers at her before taking up with another officer. Oleska and the officer grin at each other, fond but feral, and you watch with interest.

“I'm not a queen,” you mutter, your cheeks growing a little hot with memory. _I'm the queen, and you're the king!_ Stars, how ridiculous.

Meria ignores you protest, hanging on your arm. You worry about your sleeves, but allow it, if only because she's young and excited. How she's stayed that way through the grind and tumble of the First Order remains a mystery to you; at least Oleska is somewhat cynical. Meria, meanwhile, doesn't seem affected by her environment at all. “So? Are you going to do it?”

You shrug. “What other choice have I got?”

“Well, I'm sure you could say no.” This seems to be the lesser option in Meria's eyes, judging from the set of her eyebrows. “If that's what you wanted. I doubt they'd force you into anything.” She doesn't sound certain.

“It's not like I've got much to go back to,” you answer, watching Oleska put the officer flat on his back in seconds, “and anyway, he's very pretty. I don't mind doing it.”

Meria nods, then seems to realize something. “You've seen under the _mask?_ ” You groan internally. You'll be here a while.

———

“Pandora, clearance level...” You pause at Kylo's door, realizing you don't even know what your clearance level is, and say, “just let me in, Ren.” You could push your hand against the scanner and be done with it, but you want him to be his own undoing. And if he doesn't want you, you'll leave, no questions asked. Simple.

After a moment's wait, the doors slide open. You beam as you step inside, just a little. A child's victory.

“Ren?” Just as before, his rooms are dark. You pad into the bedroom, the only sound the gentle whir of the ventilators and the click of your shoes. You survey the room as best you can. His bed is barely a pallet, and his floor is hard metal instead of soft carpet. A bowl of ashes sits nearby. You knit your brows together, and there's a tug at your waist before you can think too much on it, strong and insistent.

“Lady,” Kylo Ren says against your ear, breath ghosting across the side of your face, pressed up against your back like a leech.

You swallow, keeping your voice level. “Lord Ren.”

“I've told you to call me Kylo, haven't I?”

You turn to look at him. He doesn't take his hands from your waist. He's without the mask now, and still just as pretty as before. You're dying to stretch up and kiss him until he can't breathe, until he's gasping for air.

He shares the want, judging from the hungry look on his face. Like he could eat you whole. You touch his collar with gentle fingers, adjusting it needlessly, and study the sharp angles of his face. You wonder why Snoke picked you, of all people, when Ren could've had anyone in the galaxy: a high class woman, a senator, a pilot. At the very least, an expensive, well-trained whore, one bred and born into their profession. Not you, with your excessive clothing and your backwater origins and your smart mouth. “Are we informal now?”

Kylo squeezes your waist with long fingers. Want pools in your belly, hot. “We always have been. Since we first met.” You can see the nerves, the way his dark, savage eyes are just a little too wide, and have to swallow down the fondness. This is only a game to him. You cannot afford to see him as a person, with wants and thoughts and feelings, only a job to do. Only a job. A very, very good-looking job, with a strong jawline.

“Ah, yes," you say, slightly breathless, "your generous offer for assistance.” He makes a broken, wanting noise and leans in to kiss you. In a great show of restraint on your part, you lean away, watching him whine. “How uncouth of you to accost a lady like this, Ky _lo_.”

He looks at you seriously, and in the dark of the room, his eyes glint. “Did you not want me to?” Stars, he's the definition of oblivious, isn't he? You roll your eyes.

“Just kiss me and get on with it, you great lumbering fool.” He huffs at the insult but does, nearly bruising your mouth in the process. For just a moment, the _Finalizer_ isn't so cold.

———

_My Dearest Rosalind,_

_Success!_

_Despite all evidence to the contrary, my new client is beyond sweet. I know you might not believe me, knowing his reputation for viciousness and that he cannot possibly be pretty **and** kind, but he treats me with the utmost respect. It's as if I am his mother's china doll that he cannot break! I cannot help but savor it, even though I know I shouldn't: after all, women in our line of work are so rarely respected, much less by the people who purchase our services. And though Ren is perhaps the most infuriating, childish man I have ever met, he is sweeter than anyone I've ever had in my bed._

_Perhaps its due to his inexperience, but that just makes him even sweeter, in my opinion. Like delicate Hosnian fruit. How I wish you could meet him! Though I'm sure if you did, he'd replace me and my drab looks for you and your beautiful hair in half of a parsec. I haven't even allowed him to watch me write your letter; cannot take any chances, can I?_

Here, you draw a small smiling face, and smile yourself before continuing to write. From his spot on your naked back, Kylo lets out an annoyed sound. You'd banished him there thirty minutes ago, telling him that he could look again once you've written your letter. _You're already a snoop,_ you'd told him when he'd opened his mouth to argue back, and he'd flushed, anger draining out of him, before doing as you said. The power of having such a vicious man by the cock is heady, and in more ways than one—you can still taste his spend in your mouth, the look on his face burned hard into your brain.

“Are you finished yet,” he asks in a dull tone, sounding like a petulant child.

You turn your torso just slightly, stretching back to yank affectionately on his hair. He stretches out like a content big cat, legs sliding off the side of the bed, and presses the back of his head harder into your hand. “Give me some time, love. Delivering these is a rather difficult task, you know, and I want to say all that I can to Rosalind.” _You've been in my head_ , you don't say, _you know how important to me she is_.

He huffs. “As you say.”

Turning back to your letter, you continue.

_He does not seem bothered by the fact that I was bought for him, and that I'm here because I am paid to be, not because I care for him. In fact, beyond a few vague mentions, we haven't discussed it at all. I cannot help but wonder what he thinks of it, and if there will be other women and men after me now that I have done my job. My fate hangs in the balance, Rosa, and I am not sure how I feel about all this tightrope walking._

_I wish you were here to give me advice on the matter. I miss you so terribly. I feel as if I have lost a piece of myself, and cannot be whole again until I have my sister by my side. The luxury of everything is a little intimidating after the lives we've lived, and I only wish you were here to share it with me._

_I know we cannot discuss much, as eyes are on everything we say, but should anything happen to you in my absence, contact me as soon as you can. I have a comm here, and enough sway with Kylo Ren that I could perhaps bring you aboard the Finalizer temporarily, if you should wish it. I know you are intimidated by the First Order (and rightfully so, I should think), but I would much rather you be scared than dead._

_How are you, love? Has the food in that damn place improved at all? When I am paid for my services, every cent will go to you. We will eat like queens of Naboo when I am finished on this ship, I swear by the six moons of Bariş. I love you, I love you, I love you. Write back as soon as you can. I miss your voice more everyday._

_Signed with all the love in my heart,_

_Pandora_

You review the letter. Your skin is clammy from earlier exertion, and the sheets and blankets have all been pushed to the floor, leaving you on the slightly damp bottom sheet. You smack a kiss next to your signature, leaving a thick lipstick print, and fold it up. The letter then goes on your nightstand to be sent off later.

Ren sees that you've finished and pounces. Running a predatory hand up your side, Kylo flips you onto your back, pressing hard, flurried kisses to the small curve of your stomach. “I did just as you said,” he tells you, eagerly seeking approval, “I didn't look.”

“Yes, I know. What a good boy.” You feel him shudder as you press into the bruise of his desire, the praise sending a full body jolt through him. You tangle your fingers into his hair as he travels upwards, kissing your abdomen, your breasts, your neck. You dissolve into pleased laughter. “Again?”

Kylo pauses, and seems to consider. “In a little while. Not right now.” He continues to travel back and forth in his ministrations. “I just want this.”

While he sucks on your collarbones, you say, voice thick, “wanna play checkers?”

Ren looks up at you from your blue sheets. After you'd taken note of his insufficient furniture, you'd suggested you go back to your rooms for any further activities, instead of just rolling around the floor. Later, when Kylo had been panting his want against your neck and pushing you around the mattress in a frenzy, you'd realized the point of your overlarge bed. And you'd realized his inexperience, too.

(“Why,” he'd started, confused, when you returned from your refresher with a small bottle of slick. You'd merely stared at him. “I thought women...did not need it,” he'd finished lamely, and you'd desperately wanted to toss your head back and laugh. Instead, you crawled atop him, feeling his cock brush against your thigh as you straddled his stomach. He'd looked at you like a starving man.

“Technically, no,” you'd replied, handing him the bottle before leaning down to speak in his ear, “but it makes things better for everyone. Here.” You bit the top of his ear. “Get to work, sweetheart.”

“How will I know,” he'd breathed back, confusion on his lamb's face, “when I can-”

“I'll let you know, don't worry. And besides...”

You don't open your mind to him, but you do crack the door to your head just slightly, watching his expression carefully. The lust on his face thickens instantly, feeling your desire, the depraved things you want to do to him. His mouth drops open as he moans aloud, grasping at you with his free hand, and you run your tongue across your teeth, feeling wicked.

“...we have this. Just in case.”)

You dislike the term virginity, thinking it far too black and white for such a vast activity, but it's the only word to describe his tentative hands, the way he ghosts his fingers across and inside, as if afraid to hurt you.

Currently, Kylo seems confused by your question. And that, too, is sweet. Damn him. “Checkers?”

You hang your fingers tighter in his hair, enjoying the sexed out look on his face. “You don't know how to play checkers?”

Kylo looks at you indignantly. “Of course I know. But it's a child's game, Pandora.” He taps his fingers against the inside of your thigh, and you shiver.

“I still think it's fun, and I haven't played in a while.” Not since your last client, anyhow. A cloud passes behind his eyes when he responds with a quiet, _me, too_ , then disappears just as quick.

“I want to have the black pieces,” he says, loud and commanding, and you smirk. You mentally throw him the image of him groaning above you, fingers scrabbling at your head as he comes into your throat, and Ren's cheeks turn a light shade of pink.

“As the lord says.”

And so you play, you on one end of the pulled out desk, Kylo on the other. The holo sits between you, projecting the board. You have your maid bring in another chair, and it ends up being far too small for Kylo; watching him sit in it, considering his move in checkers as if it's a battle plan, makes you laugh periodically. It earns you a glare each time.

Your maid— _Aidira_ , you remember—waits in the corner of the room, looking demure with her hands in her lap. You'd send her away if it wouldn't push your lordly guest into a fit of questions about her. You feel protective of this Aidira, even if she opposes your choice of client—after hearing about her little incident with the Stormtrooper, you want to keep her out of as much harm as possible. Her frantic message drifts through your mind occasionally, a repeating echo. _Be careful_.

Halfway through your game, you work your foot up under the desk and rest it on Kylo's shin; he freezes, then shoots you a look that's half want, half annoyed. You contemplate the irony of the man who called it _a child's game_ being determined to win at it. “You're cheating. Stop distracting me.”

You bat your eyelashes and rub his knee with your heel, your smile feral. “I'm _winning_. You should be able to best a child's game, sweetness.” He moves his piece to the center of the board with a disgruntled noise, undone by your affection, and you snicker.

You're considering both your physical and in-game move when Kylo asks abruptly, “tell me about Hosnian Prime.”

You flick your eyes up at him, sobered by the topic change. You're not offended like you thought you would be. His eyes are round and dark, somber: he means this, then. Under the desk, you rest your foot on his thigh, stopping your ministrations for a moment. “What would you like to know?”

He seems to consider this carefully, as if knowing you only have so much energy to expend on the topic. At first, you think he means to question you about the political sense of the planet, until he says, “your childhood. What was it like?”

All of your air leaves you in an amused gush. _Why do you care_ , you want to say. “Loaded question.”

“I can ask another one.”

“It's not me I'm worried for, Ren.” You lean back in your chair and chew your lip, contemplating where to even start, if you should start at all. “Let's see. Hosnian Prime was beautiful, and as cosmopolitan as you'd expect for the Republic.” The snide remark makes him suck in air through his nose, the smallest laugh you've ever heard, and you're charmed.

“We used to have this midyear festival, and lights would dot the sky and explode all night. Food was often free to whoever came by. When I was a child, I used to run street to street, grabbing whatever confection took my fancy.” Your face softens, remembering, and Ren echoes you with a lip twitch of his own. “I used to love this particular one. It had...ah, salt, all over it. Bread, I think? No one else really liked it, said it was too salty, but I had a talent for the stuff. I used to drain bottles of salt and watch my sisters make faces.” You lean your head on your hand, feeling nostalgia bubble up in you, and Ren's smile grows.

“You had sisters,” he asserts hesitantly, seeming afraid of his own ability to assume. You shake your head.

“Of a sort. We called each other sisters, but we weren't related. We only worked together.”

“Worked together?” His face contorts into an expression you can't name. “But...you were _children_ , were you not?”

“Hosnian Prime had its dark sides, too,” you tell him gently as you watch his face fall, the truth of things bitter in your mouth. Ren leans forward onto the desk, enraptured by the way you weave this story, painted in a light he's never seen before. You feel naked under his intense, unflinching stare, despite the thick robe wrapped around your shoulders. “The undercity and the murderers and the villains. That's where I lived, before they sent me away on a shuttle. In a brothel, as a whore.”

You struggle around this topic, knowing you could just bare your mind to him but unwilling to tap out so quickly. Ren looks at you in such a strange way, and his gaze is piercing, this overgrown child. For what seems like the first time, you cannot meet his eyes.

“I was raised in a sort of community. There were many other children living there, a product of our line of work, and many of the brothel workers had also grown up there. But no sex work until I was thirteen or so. That was the rule. No work until you bled.” Kylo's lip curls up, and he sneers aloud.

“Disgusting. It's just like the Republic, to allow such depravity to exist under their nose.” Fear comes to life in your heart, and it's a long moment before you gather the courage to continue. _Kylo Ren_ , you remind yourself. _Commander and killer. Remember. Don't get comfortable._

“Hey, at least there were rules." When Kylo says nothing else, you continue. "Around eleven, they taught me how to please a customer. Two years, I learned. Then they sent me off to work, and when I was fifteen, I was purchased by a brothel owner in Bariş named Lawindr. My mother's home planet, ironically.” You remember how she had screamed, begged for you to stay; remember the relief you'd felt, the fear that had topped it, and being unable to decide which one took precedence; remember arriving on the planet and being overwhelmed by all the color and majesty; remember Rosalind, taking your hand with a kind smile. “By then, I was already trained. I always dreamed-”

You shake your head, cutting yourself off with a little laugh. Ren seems perplexed by all this information, and you realize that this prince has probably never even heard about such debauchery, much less from a first hand survivor. “What? What's funny?”

“You'll laugh when I tell you. It's just that,” you lean in, conspiring, and Kylo leans further in as well, “I always sort of dreamed of, you know. Ruling over the others. I know that's strange, and that I should've wanted to help them, not rule them. But I never really wanted to help any of them.” You lift your chin. Your confession pours forth, and even in this dance you do to win Ren's favor, there's a hint of truth that you can't seem to omit. Aidira is watching you from her corner, her eyes alight with sympathy and curiosity.

“I wanted to rule them. I wanted them to look at me, and...and know I was better than all the rest.” You tilt your head and ask a question you suddenly know the answer to: “have you ever felt that, Ky _lo_?”

He hastily nods his agreement. You squash the burst of affection that the movement raises. “All of my life.” He says this with vicious passion, and you know you've hit the nail directly on the head. You silently congratulate yourself for a move well played. “I'm sorry that happened to you. That must have been...ah, traumatic." He gestures between you. "I can feel your sorrow. You're projecting it."

 _That wasn't even the beginning_ , you think, picturing Lawindr's greasy hands on you, your lilting voice caught in your windpipe (you have a lovely throat, he'd said, all slavering jaws and long looks).

You clear your throat. “What about you? Where were you born?”

It's his turn to shy away, turning his face to the wall. “I do not wish to discuss this topic any longer.”

You try not to scowl at his childishness and fail horrendously, digging your heel into his thigh harder than is necessary. He grimaces. “Oh, come on. At least tell me something. I'll feel cheated.” Kylo fiddles with a holographic checker, seeming hesitant. There's nothing about this in the job description, and neither are you driven to calculate his sexual desires any longer, since he seems pleased with whatever you do to him. This time around, you're just curious.

Not to mention that you enjoy the cadence of his voice a little too much, the emphasis he puts on almost every other word. He could read you dull reports for the rest of your life, and you don't think you would mind much, if at all.

“I was born on a ship,” he answers after a short while. “My father was a smuggler. My mother was...a noblewoman. A little like you,” Ren says, nodding your way. It doesn't sound like a compliment. “They didn't have time to stop at a planet, when I was born. That...became a theme. Not having time for me.”

You notice Ren's clenched hand laid out on the desk and take it up in yours, running your thumb across his knuckles. He stiffens, but does not pull away. You mark it down as a small victory.

In the corner of your eye, Aidira straightens up, as if ready to take Kylo Ren down herself should he do something rash, like break your fingers. You're in agreement with her fears: you anticipate sadism from a man like him, and wait for the crushing pain of broken bones. It does not come. His grip is tight and nothing else.

Warmth pools in your chest, flowing like blood from a wound, and you remind yourself viciously of his status, how those same fingers could easily wrap around your throat and kill you.

“They wanted me to become a Jedi when I turned out Force-sensitive,” Kylo is saying, “to hide away in obscurity forever. To follow in my uncle's footsteps.” Kylo's grip on your hand tightens a minuscule amount. His mind is somewhere else, his eyes very far away, and you keep your shock to yourself ( _Jedi_ , you think, breathless). “But the Supreme Leader understood my power," he continues, "and he alone understood that I was meant to rule over them, not play among them. Like you said.” He peers across at you then, cheeks slightly pink again, as if exerted. “And now that boy is dead, and I am here in his place. He was weak. I, however, am stronger.” He doesn't sound entirely sure. “Are you satisfied with my answer?"

It's nowhere near close to what you have confessed, but you suppose it will do. And your baser instincts warn you not to push him. Instead, you merely squeeze his hand. “For now, yes.” Then, with a small flourish, you overtake his last checker. Kylo pulls such an offended face that you can't help but snicker.

“That's not fair,” he protests, “I wasn't paying attention.”

“I never said I was playing fair,” you purr, “only that I was winning.” Then you press your foot into his inner thigh, watch his pupils widen, and find better things to occupy you for the rest of the day.

———

After that fateful game of checkers, life begins to look up.

You go at each other's throats for a few weeks, Kylo visiting you every night cycle, like a secret lover from a holodrama. You teach him everything you know about the human body and pulling pleasure from it, and he learns quickly. You teach him how to curl his fingers in a woman and how to curl them in a man; how to swipe his tongue into someone's mouth; how to kiss at erogenous zones and push someone over the edge with that alone. Most importantly, you teach him what you yourself like, and Ren blooms like a flower under your teaching. You hope your walls are soundproof, at least.

By the end of the fortnight, he's nearly as good as you, and you're both a happy sort of exhausted.

And now that the barrier between you is broken, Kylo Ren opens for you like a dam that's been waiting to burst for years. Touch starved, talkative, obsessive—Ren is constantly ready to spill some deep secret upon you, fuck you until you're both oversensitive, or both. He pulls you aside into empty rooms, sneaks into your quarters, eyes you in the halls, and you're reminded of a dying man drinking from an endless faucet.

You wonder at this man, this man who has been the death of so many, this man who seems to be more boy than man at all. The fact that the real Kylo Ren supersedes your expectations for him—cold, gets off on violence—both scares and fascinates you, and you're forced to smother affection, struggling not to humanize him. You know well enough that your place on the _Finalizer_ is temporary, and it won't do, to fall in with someone that will eventually tire of you. To fall in with someone who will replace you sooner rather than later. To fall in with someone that has killed, and will do so again, and again.

You walk the edge of the precipice, and Ren's affectionate hands are constantly threatening to push you over. You must know your place. You must.

You still attend the weekly meetings, except now it's for your own enjoyment, rather than any duty or study of Kylo. You're beginning to catch the military lingo, to understand the sway and go of things, and you slowly, slowly, start to contribute, much to the surprise of everyone else (and the disgust of the General). And once you start, you simply cannot stop. You offer opinions on maps and graphs and charts, and though you stand on shaky feet at first, you gain your bearings quickly. Soon enough, your civilian-based advice is just as valued as any officer's.

It helps that Kylo is a constant presence against the back wall, looking more and more like a bodyguard with each meeting. The dark marks on your neck and the way he looks at you, adoring, tells a story that everyone on the _Finalizer_ is forced to listen to, and they dare not question you now. The entire flagship dances to whatever tune you care to sing: in the halls, people step out of your way, or bow, or salute. Your dresses get more and more elaborate. Two Stormtroopers now guard your door day and night, and when you inquire them on it, they merely say, "on the commander's orders, my lady," or, "your safety is imperative, ma'am."

The power of it all is, admittedly, intoxicating. It's made better by the sour face Hux pulls every time you offer your opinion on something. He wants to choke you out, you know, but Kylo's presence in the back of the room keeps all dangers at bay.

It will all pass, you know this. You're not a fool. Every rise to power will, at some point, lead to a fall. But for now, you enjoy your silk dresses and Kylo's ravenous kisses, and purposely do not think about what your future holds.

———

“You're keeping him happy?”

“Yes, Supreme Leader. Just like you asked.”

“Good. Continue as you are. With your help, his training is progressing well. Everything is just as I have foreseen.” He seems pleased with himself.

“Yes, Supreme Leader.” You think about telling Snoke about your feelings, the way they grow like weeds. You think about mentioning the soft look in Kylo's eyes, his unquenchable thirst for affection. How he never fails to visit each night cycle, and how you always end up awake well beyond a reasonable hour, whispering secrets back and forth.

"That's all I need from you, Pandora." The Supreme Leader lifts an eyebrow. "Unless you have anything to report?"

You could. You could tell him.

"...no," you say, slowly, "nothing to report, sir."

"Dismissed."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I used to be afraid of meeting with beasts  
> but I dreamt too many stories where  
> Ariadnes loved their bull-brothers and  
> princesses took their dragons to heart  
> and now there is a desperation in me  
> for teeth and claws and anger.  
> Leave me in the maze stringless and  
> dazed and let the monster chew me up  
> and spit me out bloodied and hardened.  
> I will learn vengeance and I will learn  
> rage and I will be eaten up until I am  
> tough enough to face a world that would  
> keep me soft and helpless.  
>  _Let me not just meet with monsters_  
>  _but let me love them also_."  
>  —elisabeth hewer


End file.
